


Our Heads Are Just Houses

by robocryptid



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Blood and Violence, Brainwashing, Fake Marriage, Gaslighting, Listen it's Creepy, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Talon Hanzo Shimada, Talon Jesse McCree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-04-23 03:43:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14323830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robocryptid/pseuds/robocryptid
Summary: Some time ago, Hanzo and McCree were taken by Talon. Now they live a pleasantly uneventful life as newlyweds in the suburbs, with no memory of either their previous lives or the things they do in the shadows.





	1. Half Light

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by an idea [posted by bluandorange on Tumblr](https://bluandorange.tumblr.com/post/171441684365/bluandorange-bluandorange-okay-but-both). 
> 
> 1\. Content warning: This fic involves brainwashing and memory loss, and they are this way because they were reconditioned by Talon. I know it's in the description and the tags, but I'm putting it here too. This means some parts are kind of ugly, and their romantic relationship bears all kinds of dubious implications even when they seem happy. There is nothing graphic between them _because_ of this; if you are looking for brainwashed smut, um, I am not the author for that. There are also time skips and disjointed parts of the narrative that might be confusing, especially here in the beginning. I am happy to add or amend tags and warnings as requested.
> 
> 2\. A less somber note: I re-listened to Arcade Fire's _The Suburbs_ way too many times while thinking about/writing this. That album will never not be creepy to me now. Title of the fic shamelessly lifted from the song "Half Light I". Chapter titles also shamelessly lifted from song titles/lyrics from the same album.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic now has [beautiful fan art](https://beetleknee.tumblr.com/post/176777631357/dont-be-afraid-of-love-and-affection-a-gift) drawn and gifted by the very talented [beetleknee](https://beetleknee.tumblr.com).

_Strange how the half light_  
_Can make a place new_  
_You can't recognize me_  
_And I can't recognize you_  
  
\- Arcade Fire, “Half Light I”

 

* * *

 

James pulled into the driveway at exactly 6:45 with a small surge of pride. He had beaten the traffic out of the office, swung by the store to pick up more dog food, and still made it home before dinner. Joel would be happy; so would Delilah.

As expected, she greeted him at the door, bouncing around his legs as he made his way inside. He dipped to a knee, careful not to drop the bag on her, and he pet a hand over her yellow head. She was still a puppy, picked up when their neighbor’s pedigreed retriever gave birth after an amorous outing with an unclaimed mutt. She was frankly terribly behaved. _Spoiled rotten_ , as Joel liked to say. James caught Joel staring, stuck somewhere between adoration and frustration at the way James let her climb all over him.

“She’ll never learn to greet anybody proper if you let her get away with that,” Joel told him, arms crossed.

James grinned and got to his feet. “She has time to learn. Let her live a little.” He crossed to his husband, grabbed him by the apron to pull him down for a kiss, then shoved the bag of dog food at him.

“Mm, dog spit,” Joel said with a laugh.

“I will wash my face.” He ran his fingers through Joel’s beard. It was getting downright unruly. “You’re due for a trim.”

“I’ll think about it after supper,” he said, patting James on the butt to shoo him.

James sighed and went upstairs, and he pulled himself free of his tie and jacket. He hung them both with care, toed his shoes off and set them in his closet on the new shelf they’d installed. It still felt odd to wear his shoes through the house, but with Delilah had come some necessary changes if either of them wanted to keep any pair in good condition. In the attached master bathroom, he made good on his promise to wash Delilah’s saliva from his face, and he patted dry with a monogrammed hand towel. It had been a gift from a wedding guest; they bickered over  _who_ , exactly, but the person had remembered their choice to stick with the _J_ theme. Their names together would have been _M-E_ , which they both felt was inappropriate to commemorate a marriage.

He checked his own face in the mirror, wondering if he’d need to tidy it up. It got him distracted by the early grays in his hair, and he sighed. Joel called it distinguished, but he thought, not for the first time, about dyeing or trimming it, something to stop the reminder that he would indeed grow old. Back in the bedroom, he paused to admire the wedding photo Joel kept framed on his side of the bed, and James thought he could handle growing old if it meant he would do it with the man downstairs.

He made his way back to the kitchen, where Joel was humming to himself as he prepared their plates. “Can I help you with anything?” he asked, and Joel laughed, shook some of his hair out of his eyes.

“Can put that pan in the dishwasher if you wanna get started on cleanup. Maybe grab some forks for the table?”

James nodded and did as he was asked, moved to the dining room with the forks in tow. Joel set their plates down and tugged the apron off, disappeared back into the kitchen for a moment and returned with a bowl of salad. They ate together in the sort of peaceful quiet James loved, and as always Joel’s cooking was perfect.

James smiled and broke the silence. “It’s excellent. No surprise.”

Joel beamed at him around a mouthful of salmon, which should have been disgusting but only charmed him. “Was lookin’ up a restaurant for a piece I’m workin’ on and saw this on the menu. Thought it might meet your criteria.” He gave James a gentle nudge with his foot. James had been on him lately about their health, which Joel teased him was part of his neurosis about growing older. “I’m breakin’ the rules this weekend though. Karen came by today, invited us to a barbecue.”

“Hm. She always seems to come around when I’m not home. Should I be worried?” It was meant as a joke, a nod to the curious number of middle-aged women in the neighborhood who could not get enough of Joel’s easy charm. Several, they suspected, were very excited to prove how enlightened they were by befriending them.

Joel laughed. “ _So_  worried,” he said with a wink. “Y’know, she asked me somethin’ today…” He trailed off for a moment, a flash of confusion, then he laughed at himself. “That was gonna be a funny story, but I can’t quite remember it. I’m sure I’ll think of it later.”

James smiled softly back. It happened sometimes; Joel was a veteran from the omnic threat here in the States, had suffered a few injuries that left him occasionally spacey. “I’m sure,” he answered.

They talked about their days, though they had been boring enough that stories were difficult to summon. James was an accountant, a job whose details thrilled absolutely nobody, not even his husband. Joel worked from home writing a food and travel blog — though they hadn’t traveled much since they had gotten married — and he picked up freelance work where he could.

A knock at the door interrupted Joel’s funny rant about an editor he was dealing with, and James excused himself to answer. “Tell the barbarians to come back when we ain’t in the middle of supper.” James smiled over his shoulder at him, then swung open the door, Delilah at his heels.

Before him stood two figures in hoodies: a dark-skinned woman with a tattoo under her eye and a man with a face riddled in scars. Or, no, that seemed a trick of the lighting, the gleam of the porch bulb thrown over the shadow of their hoods. She only wore heavy eyeliner, and his face was mostly smooth, though his cheeks were pitted with a few pockmarks. James stared, perhaps rudely, and they both stared back at him. They were woefully out of place in the neighborhood, looked as if they were up to no good somehow. He could feel the beginning of one of his migraines slowly forming behind his eyes. “May I… help you?” he finally asked, but he could feel the dull throb increasing, pushing across his forehead and back. This threatened to be a nasty one; perhaps it had been the salmon.

“Hanzo,” the man breathed out, a strange hiss escaping with it. The pain spiked, felt as though someone were digging needles between his eyebrows.

He shoved a palm into his eye, tried futilely to scrub the feeling away. “I’m sorry,” he grit out. “Now is… not a good time.” His vision felt blurred; it was hard to even look at them. “I must ask you to leave,” he said, still haltingly. He tried to close the door, and the woman’s hand shot out to catch it.

“The hell are you doin’? He told y’all to leave. I got no problem callin’ the cops,” Joel snapped, and the rest was a blur, James only dimly aware of Joel shutting and locking the door. He led James to the couch and dimmed the lights, and James heard him place a call to the police. “Prob’ly nothin’, but just in case,” he said into the receiver, voice all apology and charm, pitched low in deference to James’ migraine.

When it was finished, Joel carefully guided him up the stairs to the dark bedroom, got his ice pack and pills. “Lemme take care of the dishes, and I’ll be back up.” James nodded, then lay in the dark silence until Joel returned, trying his hardest to be quiet. James could hear every step anyway, could hear the creak of the bed with every movement, but Joel was forgiven when he offered the scalp and neck massage.

It was gone by morning, the leftover bruised feeling easy to forget when Joel’s gentle hand rubbing his neck sent a flash of heat through his body, ended with both of them getting out of bed later than usual. Over breakfast, they laughed, both embarrassed by the night before.

“I still can’t believe you called the cops on those children,” James teased.

“Eh, punk kids should know better than to prank the neighbors. Whose were they, again? Looked like Don and Paulo’s, maybe.”

“Maybe,” James shrugged. He put away the dishes, packed a lunch, and he went to the office as he always did.

 

* * *

 

James followed his nose, stuck somewhere between irritated and a little worried. He found Joel at the corner of the house, watching Delilah play in the backyard as he smoked a cigarette.

When he caught sight of James, he had the decency to look guilty, but not guilty enough to put it out. James crossed his arms and spoke sternly, though it was difficult to summon any real anger. “I thought you quit.”

“I know, sweetheart. Work’s been stressin’ me out lately. Had one of those nightmares last night.”

James caved immediately, reached out to push a lock of hair behind Joel’s ear. It made Joel smile, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “Do you remember it?” James asked.

“No.” James wasn’t surprised. Joel never remembered his nightmares, only woke up restless and foggy. Sometimes he acted as though his surroundings were unfamiliar, as if the life they had built together was lost. Those times were the hardest, but he always calmed at the sight of James, said he grounded him, helped bring him back to the present. It was to be expected, Joel’s therapist said; trauma like his could do that.

“Hm.” James considered it quietly, tried not to let the smell of it bother him. It always had, made him uneasy like there was something  _wrong_  about it.

“Emergencies only,” Joel said, waving the cigarette at him. “I promise it’s the same pack it’s been for a month now.”

“Okay,” he relented, “but I’m doubling our run tonight to make you pay for it.”

“Yessir.” Joel grinned, wide and charming and a little lopsided.

James was quiet for a moment as he surveyed the flat green lawn, thumbing idly at Joel's hip. “I think we need to start on our garden.” 

“You ain’t busy enough already?”

James laughed. “You know I’m happiest when I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. Besides, it would be nice. We could grow our own vegetables. You’d like that.”

Joel grinned wider. “I would.” He pointed out at the space. “Maybe some tomatoes over there, zucchini, and you _know_ we’ll need peppers.”

“We could start today, just make a day of it. We don’t have any other plans.”

Joel hummed. “Bet we could lay out some raised beds if we ever broke out all those tools in the shed.”

“We’d need to organize it first,” he said, and his head throbbed a little. The smoke might have bothered him more than he’d thought.

“You keep addin’ to our to-do list, we’re never gonna finish a project,” Joel said, grinning at him from where he knelt, patting soil around the last tomato plant. James’ head hurt, the sun too harsh in his eyes, and his skin felt tight like he was beginning to burn. Had he forgotten sunblock, or had they been out here longer than he’d thought?

“Well,” he said. “You got your vegetables. I’d like some flowers, though.”

“Yeah, those’d be nice. Maybe next weekend, we’ll plan it out.”

Joel stood and dusted the dirt from his gloves. He was sweating, white undershirt clinging to his broad chest. James forgot the headache and the looming sunburn. “Come here,” he said.

Joel eyed him, wide mouth curving into a smirk. “I am covered in dirt. Could use a good shower.”

“I like when you’re dirty,” James said, knew it was exactly the sort of stupid line Joel liked, and they struggled to kiss for smiling.

 

* * *

 

James came home to find Joel a nervous wreck, pacing in the living room. “Is something wrong?” he asked, moving closer.

“Athena’s gone missin’,” Joel said.

James heard a buzzing in his ears, felt the start of a headache. “I— what?”

“I said Delilah’s gone missin’,” Joel said, face screwed up tight.

Delilah bounded to greet him as he came through the door, stopped up short and sat just like they’d taught her. She wore a red bandana. “Who’s a good girl?” he asked, and he dropped to his knees to pet her. “You’re growing too fast, little one.”

“That she is,” Joel said with a grin. “We’re almost outta her food again.”

“I can pick some up tomorrow. I like the bandana,” he said, let her lick his face while Joel sighed. He’d given up this fight; besides, James had caught him letting her kiss him, too. “Where’d you get it?”

“I thought—” Joel paused, rubbed a hand over his brow. “Yeah, it’s real cute, isn’t it?”

 

* * *

 

“I have an idea,” James announced over dinner. “Let’s get away for the weekend.”

Joel looked up from his plate. “Y’know, I’ve been havin’ similar thoughts. Got an itch to put some more travel back in my blog.”

“I didn’t suggest a  _working_  weekend,” James grumbled, rolling his eyes.

“Hey, I can keep notes in my head. Nothin’s gonna distract me from you.” Joel smiled wide, and James instinctively braced himself for the corny line that was bound to come next. “You know you’re my favorite sight to see.”

James rolled his eyes again, but he still smiled. “I bet you used to use that one all the time.”

Joel laughed, nudged at him with his foot under the table. “Prob’ly. It’s true for you, though. Hard to believe you’re pushin’ forty.” Joel’s hands roamed down his sides, pushed him back onto the hotel bed.

“Hm, I can believe you are,” he said, teasing. “Scruffy old man.”

Joel laughed, grabbed at the hand stroking through his hair to press a kiss to James’ knuckles, over the glinting gold band. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll trim it tomorrow.” Then his kisses pressed lower, and James tangled a hand in his hair again. For a delirious moment, he thought he saw something blue on his wrist, but it disappeared as Joel distracted him again.

 

* * *

 

His hands were positively filthy. He scrubbed at them, wondering which part of the garden had such red dirt. He thought that was wrong, somehow. He was in a hotel in Chicago. His hands were dirty because they had gone to—

His thoughts were interrupted by Joel pressing up behind him, by the kiss to his hair. He was at home, washing his hands before dinner. “Y’know, I had the funniest thought?”

“What’s that?” he asked, scrubbing, digging under his nails. They looked clean but he  _felt_  it. He knew they were still filthy.

“I was picturin’ you with long hair.” His ears buzzed, the start of a headache. Joel’s fingers scratched over his scalp, carded through the short strands. “Can you even imagine?”

“I would look like…” His head throbbed. “Like…”

“What was that, sweetheart?” Joel asked, out in the garden.

“I thought you quit,” he said, waving a hand to clear the smoke in front of his face.

“I know, but I had one of those nightmares last night. Kind of an emergency. I promise it’s the same pack it’s been for a month now.” He thought about it, about Joel’s nightmares, about the trauma response his therapist said was normal. “Better catch her before she digs up your flowers,” Joel said, pointing at Delilah.

He ordered her to come to them, crouched down to pet her. He tugged gently at her bandana. “You’re growing too fast,” he chided.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic now has [beautiful fan art](https://beetleknee.tumblr.com/post/176777631357/dont-be-afraid-of-love-and-affection-a-gift) drawn and gifted by the very talented [beetleknee](https://beetleknee.tumblr.com).


	2. Ocean in a Shell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic now has [beautiful fan art](https://beetleknee.tumblr.com/post/176777631357/dont-be-afraid-of-love-and-affection-a-gift) drawn and gifted by the very talented [beetleknee](https://beetleknee.tumblr.com).

_Our heads are just houses_  
_Without enough windows_  
_They say you hear human voices_  
_But they only echo_

\- Arcade Fire, “Half Light I”

 

* * *

 

James looked out over the edge of the rental’s balcony, down at the city street below. The wind was harsh against his face, but he didn’t mind, liked the feel of it in his hair. He liked it up high, liked the city’s lights and noise and people at a distance. It felt right somehow. 

The door slid open behind him, and Joel budged up beside him, his warmth a shield against the wind. That felt right too, and he smiled over at him. 

“We’re gonna be late for our reservations if you don’t start gettin’ ready,” Joel said with a grin. James thought Joel looked good like that, all in black.

James thought he looked reasonably good all in black, too. He turned to say as much to Joel, but he paused when he saw him. Joel was seated at the little table, his usually animated face gone completely expressionless. His hands were quick and sure as they inspected the barrel of his—

James combed his fingers through Joel’s hair, carefully working apart the tangles. He said nothing about his own impending headache, not on a night like tonight, when Joel’s nightmares tried to drag him back to the Crisis. He only pet carefully through the strands, let his nails scratch gently over his scalp, until Joel sighed and turned, buried his face in James’ neck. “Don’t know what I’d do without you, darlin’.” James snorted, picking up the socks that had slipped free from Joel’s armful of laundry. 

“Lucky you, you’ll never have to find out.”

 

* * *

 

Joel was out for his therapy appointment, and he had forgotten to take Delilah out before he left. Neither of them wished to come home to urine or worse on the floor, so James left work early. He let Delilah out, made sure she avoided the flower beds and vegetable garden.

Back inside, he set up at the coffee table to work from home. They had an office, but he didn’t like to disrupt the space, thought Joel deserved to be able to separate work from home life by confining work to one room all his own. So he knelt on the floor, which Joel had always teased him about; Joel said it was hell on his knees and back, but James didn’t have those problems. It was comfortable, a habit he’d formed so long ago he couldn’t place it.

Besides, it let Delilah curl up beside him. They were still debating whether to let her on the couch or bed. He stroked his fingers over the bandana, traced the gold design that lined the edges. He had never seen anything like it, but he liked the pattern, found something about it strangely soothing to look at.

Someone knocked at the door. Delilah looked up lazily, then turned her pleading eyes on him, tail thumping against the hardwood. He smiled and gave her a scratch, then he moved to open the door.

There were two women, neither of whom he recognized. They both had dark skin, one dark-haired and the other with unnatural purple streaked throughout. He couldn’t focus on the one on the left, had a hard time making sense of her features. But the one on the right, with the purple hair and the tiny mole under her eye, she was perfectly clear.

“We are here to fix your air conditioner,” the woman on the left said stiffly. She wouldn’t quite meet his eye, and he didn’t quite meet hers either.

“I don’t recall ordering any repairs,” he said.

“Your husband did this morning,” said the one with purple hair. She held something in her hand; it made his head hurt to try to look at it. “See? Request for an estimate right here. He said this would be a good time.” She pointed her finger, a long purple nail tapping on the paper.

“I see,” he said with a smile. “I apologize. Joel can be absent-minded. Please, come in.” The one with the dark hair went upstairs without a word, but purple-hair stayed with him. “I’m sorry, I did not catch your name.”

“Sombra,” she said with a shrug, looking around the house. She set the thing down on the coffee table, the thing he couldn’t look at.

“Should you be with your associate?”

“No. You should sit.” Delilah sat too, and Sombra knelt down to pet her, smiling a little. _Some guard dog_ , he thought.

He was on the couch, with Delilah’s chin on his knee, pitiful eyes begging to climb into his lap. He looked at his laptop, at the open spreadsheet. There was something wrong with it, he thought. He had been working on—

He couldn’t remember. There were people in the room, talking to each other, and he felt afraid, wrong in some unfathomable way. He worried for Joel, didn’t know where he was. He stared hard at Delilah’s bandana. Where the hell was McCree? He felt the onset of one of his headaches, wondered where he had heard that name before. At the wedding, perhaps. He and Joel still laughed at how many guests they couldn’t account for, distant family invited by other family members, by Joel’s father. Or mother, maybe. How old must he be that he could already forget planning the wedding?

He laughed a little, rubbed at the ache between his eyes. A pale woman’s face, haloed by blonde hair, swam in front of his, made him recoil sharply. “This may sting,” she said gently, and he felt the prick of a needle in his arm.

He knelt on the floor, staring at the spreadsheet. Delilah was at his side, butting against him. He pet at her floppy ears, stroked the edge of the bandana with his thumb. There was something wrong with the spreadsheet, a puzzle to solve before work tomorrow. Before Joel got home for dinner.

“Hanzo,” someone said, and he didn’t know him. The man crouched beside Delilah, a stranger petting his dog, adjusting the bandana. _Some guard dog_ , he thought, and it gave him a sense of déjà vu. They had spoiled her so much she’d cuddle up to anyone. He smiled.

“Hanzo,” said the man again, and James could feel a headache beginning.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” he said. He thought the man’s face had scars, but he looked away quickly. It was rude to stare, if so, and he was ashamed to feel sick at the sight of him. It was no way to think of a guest, of any person at all. They were only scars.

“It’s your name,” the man insisted, and James felt nausea sweep through him, felt his whole body go hot.

“Genji,” someone said gently. James looked up at a blonde woman, had the strangest sense he’d met her before. Maybe the wedding. “We can’t undo it in a day.”

“Undo what?” James snapped, curled his palms against his aching eyes. There was something wrong with his spreadsheet. He had a puzzle to solve for work and dinner to make before his husband got home from the... from the doctor, he thought. He usually knew these things, couldn’t understand why this was difficult to remember. Who were these people?

“You have been through a great deal, James,” she said coolly, gently, but her voice hurt to hear. His arms hurt too, both of them but one more than the other. “We’re here to help you.”

He stared at the spreadsheet, caught strange, dreamlike snippets of their conversation.

“He’s my  _brother_.”

“...might as well be mine.”

“They need  _time_... monitor the situation...”

Delilah licked his face, and he smiled at her, had to angle his head away to keep the tongue out of his mouth. Joel would tease him mercilessly if he saw.

The door opened and Delilah bounded, barking. He heard Joel’s laugh and smiled to himself, a little smug. Perfect timing, he thought, as he pulled dinner from the oven.

Joel nuzzled up against him, all hands for a moment. One brushed the skin on his hip, slipped under the edge of his shirt, and he shivered. It was shockingly cold compared to the oven, to the rest of Joel’s warmth. He looked down, froze at the sight of metal fingers.

“Somethin’ wrong, darlin’?” Joel asked, nosing at the side of his neck. James was torn, strangely, between the impulse to lean into him and the instinct to push the cold hand away.

“I... I am...” Joel stopped his nuzzling, seemed truly concerned now. “No,” he said. “Your hand is cold.” Joel had been in the military. He had lost his arm in combat. It had always been this way, ever since they had met; James even liked it sometimes, the contrast between the cool metal and Joel’s warm skin. He knew how to care for it, how to help him remove it, massage the aching, scarred flesh at the end of a long day.

“You made pizza?” Joel asked with a laugh. “What happened to our diet?”

“I lost track of time with work. There’s some miscalculation on one of my spreadsheets, and it’s an absolute nightmare.”

 

* * *

 

James heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, Joel on his way down from the office. Delilah came thundering down with him, bowled right into James’ legs, and he laughed, but his hand slipped, nicked the end of his knife into his thumb.

The blood went everywhere, a shocking amount for such a tiny cut. He hissed to himself but he could only stand still, staring at it. Joel watched too, didn’t move or say anything. Delilah whimpered, and it knocked something loose. He moved, grabbed a hand towel to shove over the thumb and put pressure on it.

Joel seemed to shake off his shock, rushed to his side to help him hold the towel in place. His movements were strange, stilted, like James had done more than only cut his thumb.

“Christ, you ever let anybody help you? Hold still.”

“What?” James asked, taken aback by the growl in Joel’s voice.

Joel looked at him, eyes soft. “Didn’t say anything. You doin’ alright, sweetheart?”

“I don’t— My hand slipped,” he said, feeling strangely stupid. “My hand never slips. That never—”

Joel laughed, stroked fingers over his brow. “Everybody messes up in the kitchen. Even my favorite perfectionist.”

James flushed and he didn’t know why. “I don’t think I do.”

“First time for everythin’,” Joel said, and it was strange, overlaid with a harsh, cynical tone he had never heard from Joel. James shook his head; it was aching now, throbbing in time with the sting in his thumb.

They stood at the sink, and James watched as the water rinsed the blood away, stood frozen with a sense he’d seen it before. Joel’s hands were on his, gently petting soap over the thumb because James was too useless to do it himself. He glanced at Joel’s face.

There were thin trails of blood on his cheeks, watery where he’d tried to wash them away. They trailed into his beard, bushy and overgrown. None of the blood was his. He grabbed at James, calloused fingers rough on his arm, scrubbing at dried, flaking blood. It shot pain through his arm, but James couldn’t look at the wound, only at the face hovering in front of him. “Hold  _still_ ,” he snapped. “It’s just you’n me, and I’m not lettin’ you bleed out on my watch.”

“Why?” James snapped back, his own voice just as unfamiliar. It was more a command than a question.

“‘Cause you ain’t done yet. You still got shit to pay for.” It was matter of fact, like he shouldn’t have had to say it at all. Joel reached for his face then, eyes soft and concerned. His hand was soft too. “Sweetheart, you’re startin’ to worry me.”

 

* * *

 

Somehow, their bedroom had developed a set of strange holes in the corner near the ceiling. James had spackled over it, and now he was back, painting careful blue strokes over the patch job. “Did the builders rush, you think?” he asked.

Joel laughed, voice down by his waist. “Maybe. You havin’ second thoughts about the house?”

“Perhaps about the craftsmanship.”

“You sure you don’t want me to do that? Might have a better reach.”

“And a poorer eye for detail,” he said fondly.

Joel laughed. “Got some details I’m good at eyein’ right here,” he said, rubbing a hand over James’ hip, the swell of his ass.

He snorted. “Hands on the ladder. That won’t be cute if I fall.” Joel didn’t relent, and James risked turning, threatened to swipe the tip of the paintbrush over his nose. Joel flinched back and put both hands on the ladder again, laughing. Satisfied, James turned and finished the coat of paint, then backed carefully down the ladder. Joel gave him the space, then pressed close when his feet were back on the floor. “If I spill this because of you,” he started, threatening, and Joel carefully plucked the paint tray from his hand and set it down.

James turned, brandishing the paint brush, and Joel closed gentle fingers around his wrist, holding it wide. “Nobody should trust you with a weapon,” he said, grinning, and James’ ears buzzed.

_“Don’t trust you with a weapon in hand,” the stupid cowboy said, and he bristled._

_“Watch if you must. If I wanted you dead, you could not stop me,” he said back, then sank an arrow into the head of a target bot._

“Baby?” Joel had a hand on his cheek, a thumb stroking his brow. The hand on his wrist was shockingly cold, and he jerked back a little. “Whoa, you alright?”

“I… Yes.” He shook his head a little, the strange scene quickly fading. His eyes hurt. “I think the paint is giving me a headache.”

“Alright. You go downstairs, I’ll open up some windows in here and clean up.”

James nodded, and he relinquished the brush to Joel. He thought fresh air might do him some good, and he found himself in the back yard. Joel came out after a few minutes, paint supplies in hand, and he headed toward the shed to put them away.

It felt wrong. “Stop,” he said, and Joel turned to look at him.

“Somethin’ wrong, sweetheart?” Joel asked.

“Don’t. Don’t go in there.”

Joel looked at him, then back at the shed, clearly at a loss. “Not sure where else you want the paint to go.”

“Not in there,” he said, and his head buzzed. He felt faint. He wanted to go to Joel, guide him away from the little building, but he couldn’t make himself move toward it. He couldn’t explain either, even if he knew it made him seem irrational.

It didn’t matter. Joel was coming to him, instead, setting the paint supplies on the patio table. “You doin’ alright, darlin’?” Joel’s hand was on his cheek again, brushed through his hair. “You’ve been actin’ funny today.”

_“You been actin’ funny,” he said, heavy brows drawn down. It was hard to know if he was suspicious or concerned._

_“It is none of your business,” he snapped back, past the lump in his throat._

_He received a glare for his tone. “Thought we were past all this bullshit. You don’t gotta hide from me.”_

_He was quite certain he_ did _. They weren’t even friends, not really, and even this uneasy peace had taken months to achieve. There was no need to complicate it further._

“James? You’re startin’ to worry me,” Joel said, eyes huge and so close. James didn’t know why he’d been so worried, didn’t know why his heart was pounding. He dragged Joel close, kissed him with a desperation he didn’t understand, as if it were the first and only time he’d ever be allowed.

 

* * *

 

James dug through the meticulously organized pantry. “Why don’t we have  _rice_?” he asked.

“Uhh, somethin’-somethin’ starches, somethin’ about our meal plan?” Joel said, and James could hear the grin in his voice.

He huffed. “Why don’t we have  _brown_  rice, then?” He couldn’t remember the last time they had gone grocery shopping, but he had a craving for some dish he couldn’t place.

“Sweetheart, it is seven in the mornin’. Who eats rice for breakfast?”

“I do,” he said, with a vehemence he couldn’t explain. “Or I  _did_. As a…” The buzzing was back in his ears. “As a child?” It didn’t seem right, but nothing else made sense.

“We’ll pick some up later, then. In the meantime, if you’re in the mood to indulge, I can make us my childhood favorite.” James huffed, but he relented, helped Joel whip up a batter for pancakes.

Somehow, they had the syrup to defy their diet, but not rice. It bothered him in a way that he was sure was petty, and he was equally sure it mattered to him. He was distracted easily enough by Joel’s pancakes, light and fluffy and sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic now has [beautiful fan art](https://beetleknee.tumblr.com/post/176777631357/dont-be-afraid-of-love-and-affection-a-gift) drawn and gifted by the very talented [beetleknee](https://beetleknee.tumblr.com).


	3. Wasted Hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that gave me _the absolute most_ trouble. Now that it's posted, the rest should come much more quickly. If you waited for it, thank you for waiting.
> 
> This fic now has [beautiful fan art](https://beetleknee.tumblr.com/post/176777631357/dont-be-afraid-of-love-and-affection-a-gift) drawn and gifted by the very talented [beetleknee](https://beetleknee.tumblr.com).

_I had a dream I was dreaming_  
_And I feel I’m losing the feeling_  
_Makes me feel like_  
_Like something don’t feel right_

— Arcade Fire, “Modern Man”

 

* * *

 

They jogged together, Delilah loping along beside them. They made a circuit of the neighborhood, Joel waving to other joggers and families out for a stroll. James thought he was at his cutest like this, cheeks flushed and grinning at the neighbors.

They rounded the corner and made their way back home. Two houses down, there was a moving van, a sign outside that said “sold”.

“Huh,” Joel said. “Didn’t even know it was for sale.”

“Wasn’t that your friend Karen’s house? Did you know she was moving?”

“I don’t—” Joel paused. “Not sure,” he said, rubbing at his forehead. Delilah barked and yanked at her leash, excitedly trying to pull them toward a pair of people walking out to the moving truck. Both of them froze, staring at James and Joel.

“Heel. Delilah, for God’s sake,” Joel muttered, tugging back on her leash. He commanded her again, huffing. “Don’t mind her. Looks like she likes y’all! Welcome to the neighborhood.” Both of them drew closer. The moment they got close enough, Delilah darted for the young woman, finally happy to sit. “Oh, you’ll behave for  _her_ , huh?”

The woman knelt, and Delilah tried to climb all over here, treated her like she did James or Joel. She stared up at them. “Hello,” she said, and she sounded so… odd. She was odd. He had a hard time focusing on her face.

“Y’all just movin’ in?”

“Yes, I. My, uh, husband and I…” She trailed off, seemed lost, and she only stared at Joel.

The husband in question chimed in. “We just bought the place. Love at first sight!” He strolled closer, and Delilah tried to lick at him too. He gave off the strangest sense of someone working hard to contain their energy. “I’m Hideo,” he said. He had a smile like it was a joke James should understand. “The woman trying to steal your dog is my wife Kamalah.”

“Pleasure to meet you both,” Joel said. James could not speak, didn’t know why this Hideo’s eyes on him made him nervous. Hideo thrust out a hand to shake, and James visibly recoiled. He weakly waved instead and felt utterly embarrassed by his own reaction.

“Maybe we should stop bothering our new neighbors,  _honey_ ,” Kamalah said. Hideo seemed  _concerned_  that James wouldn’t take his hand. James felt a buzzing in his ears, and Hideo finally backed off. Kamalah stood, and she was nearly Joel’s height. James’ ears buzzed more. She gently pulled her husband back by the arm. “It was great to meet you. We still have some boxes to move so…” She trailed off and shrugged, tugging on Hideo’s arm.

“Good luck,” Joel said, "and if you need any help, we're two houses just that way." He slung an arm around James, guided him down the sidewalk. They had to tug at Delilah to get her to come along.

The buzzing went away at the house. James paused on the porch. “Do you think we need a porch swing?” he asked.

Joel elbowed him a little as he unlocked the door. “You lookin’ for another project?”

“It seemed like. Like something you would enjoy,” he said.

“Guess so. We never sit out front though.”

“We might, if we had a place for it.”

They went inside, and with the door closed, Joel laughed a little. “Y’know, I hate to gossip—”

James snorted. “You  _love_  to gossip.”

“Well, either way, not sure those two are cut out for the long haul. The new neighbors.”

“What do you mean?”

Joel laughed. “I don’t know, just didn’t seem like they fit together. ‘Sides, that guy’s got a wanderin’ eye.” He elbowed James in the side again, laughing.

“What?”

“Oh, you never notice unless they’re as forward as I had to be,” Joel said. “He was eyein’ you somethin’ fierce.”

James felt himself recoil again, something in his gut telling him it was  _wrong_ , wrong both factually and in some way he couldn’t possibly explain. “I don’t… I don’t think so.”

 

* * *

 

There was still something wrong with his spreadsheet. He sat on the couch, staring it down as if it would reveal some hidden depths. Beside it, on the coffee table, pulsed the strange little light Joel had brought home. It was hard to look at directly, but the glow it gave off was still oddly soothing. 

He stared at the string of numbers in front of him, trying to make sense of them. They were not labeled, did not bring anything immediately to mind, and he wondered how he could have been so foolish as to leave off _labels_. He was interrupted by the door, by Delilah barreling toward him and Joel laughing behind her.

Delilah came right to him, tried to wiggle up onto the couch next to him while James tried to simultaneously fend her off and pet her. She finally settled at his feet, staring longingly at his lap. “Don’t let her fool you, she’s been trouble today,” Joel said. 

“That can’t be true,” James said, stroking her ears. “Tell me he’s lying. I’ll believe you.”

Joel laughed at that, then sank onto the couch next to him. “I’m serious. She got off her leash when she saw our new neighbors. Just wanted to say hi, but it was a little rude of her to go tearin’ off like that.” 

James hummed to himself. “She seems to like them.” 

“Yeah, Ms. Kamalah was real nice bringin’ her back too. Didn’t seem to mind at all.” Joel slung an arm across the back of the couch and scratched a hand through his beard. “What’re you gettin’ into?”

“Nothing interesting. Just... work,” James said, attempting a gesture to fill in all the words he couldn’t express. 

Joel smiled patiently. “Anything I can help with?”

“Perhaps a fresh pair of eyes wouldn’t hurt,” he said. “There is something wrong with this spreadsheet, maybe one of the formulas?” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose.

“You sure this is the right one?” Joel asked. He leaned past James, awkwardly stretched to look closer. “This one’s mostly blank.”

James laughed, out of frustration more than anything else. “No, there should be a— a quarterly—” He fumbled for the words, and he could feel the beginning of a headache.

Joel moved and perched himself on the edge of the couch, hunched over the laptop now. “Did you close outta one? This one’s only got two lines.”

James leaned in next to Joel. Joel was  _right_. There were only two cells filled in, two short strings of numbers that made no sense at all. “This isn’t it,” James said, though he didn’t fully trust the statement. “But what  _is_ it?”

Joel laughed. “If this was the Army, I’d tell you that one kinda looks like coordinates.” James’ head felt strangely fuzzy. He blinked hard and tried to force himself to focus. “Maybe we could look it up?” There was a ringing in James’ ears; Joel’s voice sounded far away, as if he weren’t a solid, warm weight right beside him. “Looks like the internet’s down. Huh.” Joel sat back, a hand idly stroking between James’ shoulder blades. 

“Coordinates,” James said slowly, and Joel looked at him, his hand going still. James looked at the screen again, felt a sharp spike of pain behind his eyes. “Chicago.”

“You know that off the top of your head, huh?” Joel asked.

James rolled his eyes, laughing. “I may not be a culinary genius, but I know how to make  _rice_  without a recipe.”

 

* * *

 

James had to snatch Delilah’s collar to hold her back while Joel answered the door. It was the new neighbors again; they were strangely pushy, seemed to have taken Joel’s offer to help as a perpetual invitation.

James didn’t hear the greetings, instead focused his energy on holding Delilah back from barging right at them. He could only hear vague snippets until Kamalah snapped, “It’s taking too long,  _Hideo_.”

The door shut loudly, and James was certain that when Joel entered the kitchen it would be to explain. He let go of Delilah’s collar, and she bounded out of the room. “Darlin’, you think you could help me, uh, entertain our guests?” He sounded suddenly very tired.

James followed Joel to the living room, where both neighbors stood tensely. Kamalah held something in her hand, but it was hard to look at. “You will want to sit down, I think,” she told them, flinching as she did, and James did as he was told.

It was hard to pay attention, hard to absorb everything she said. Part of it was the strange device she held in her hand. It was distracting, like he both wanted to stare at it and couldn’t. The rest was that her story was so outlandish James found it hard to digest, hard to even feign the politeness necessary to endure this and get these strange people out of his home.

She said they were from Overwatch. It sounded impossible; they had been shut down shortly after the Crisis. But she was insistent. James was somehow meant to believe that  _he_ belonged to Overwatch too, that he had fought omnics and terrorists in their name. He tried to meet Joel’s eye, to reassuringly share a moment of disbelief with his husband, but Joel seemed to have none of his reservations about looking at the device. His gaze was locked on it, unwavering.

James was meant to believe they had been abducted by a terrorist organization, that this life was simply a cover for crimes he couldn’t remember. Supposedly they had monitored them in their own home, set up trails for law enforcement to follow right to James and Joel if any of their missions went sour.

It was insane, impossible. He couldn’t meet Joel’s eye, so he sought an ally in Hideo, who remained oddly silent throughout. Surely the man was aware that his wife sounded like a lunatic. Surely he didn’t wish to let her continue making a fool of herself.

“Hanzo,” he said, and the ringing began in James’ ears again. 

 

* * *

 

James splashed water on his face and caught his own eye in the mirror. He dried his hands and face on a monogrammed towel, then he examined the grays in his hair with a sigh.

Joel had slept in the guest bed again, citing nightmares and restless sleep, but it was hard not to take it a little personally. Their relationship had always seemed charmed; they never seemed to argue the way others did. If it were not the nightmares, maybe this was part of the shine wearing off, part of settling in for the long haul.

James let out a long breath and talked himself down. Joel had never lied to him. He’d never had any reason to. He was worrying himself over nothing.

Halfway down the stairs, he could smell smoke, and he sighed again. He followed his nose to the back patio, where he caught Joel with a half-finished cigar and a beer. Kamalah was with him, lounging on one of the patio chairs with her own beer.

“I thought you quit,” James said.

Joel pulled the cigar guiltily from his mouth. “Had a lot on my mind,” he said. James couldn’t put his finger on  _why_ , exactly, beyond his own nagging insecurities, but Joel sounded strangely gruff, unlike himself. 

“Of course,” James said. He lingered for a moment, unsure what to say and unwilling to push the issue with Kamalah there to witness it. 

Joel’s face went a little softer. “Hey sweetheart,” he said, and his voice was gentler too. He glanced at Kamalah then back to James. “While you’re out here, think you could do somethin’ for me?”

James tried a smile. “We’ll see. Are you sure it’s something you should ask when there’s company present?” Kamalah let out a choked sound, and James thought uncharitably that he still did not like her much if that was all it took to scandalize her.

Joel, though, gave him a wan smile in return, strangely humorless. It set all the insecurities buzzing in James’ head again. “Nothin’ like that,” he said, too flatly to be flirting back. “I, uh, forgot the code to get in the shed. You think you could open it for me?”

James let himself outside all the way. He felt a curious sense of dread, as if doing this simple thing for his husband was going to hurt them somehow. It seemed absurd, but it rendered him unable to speak. Even as he moved toward the shed, Joel at his back, his instincts screamed at him to turn away, clamoring in his head until it was all he could do to reach the door.

“You remember it?” Joel asked, a hand settling into the small of his back. James only nodded, fingers paused over the keypad. He curled them into a fist and straightened them again. “Got somethin’ I need to show you,” Joel said. “Gotta get in there first.” James nodded again, let himself be soothed by the sound of Joel’s voice, by the small circles Joel rubbed into his back, by the thought that all his fears were of course ridiculous.

He punched in the code, and Joel pulled the door open. 

There was nothing frightening in the shed. Nothing to leap out at them and do them harm. There were only gardening tools and leftover cans of paint, their step ladder and power tools, all perfectly normal, if in need of some organizing. 

Yet somehow he still felt as if he should not be here, as if everything about this was entirely wrong. Joel ushered him inside and toward the back wall. “What about this one?” he asked.

James let out a laugh, one that was mostly nerves. “What?”

“Is it the same code? Or a different one?” 

“There’s no code, it’s.” He stopped, staring straight ahead. It was only a wall, nothing else, nothing that required a passcode.

“Damn it, Ha—” Joel bit off a sound, then he curled his hand around James’, moved it himself. “James, darlin’, I know you know this.” 

There was a keypad under his hand, one he had no memory of seeing before. But his fingers seemed to know on their own, pushed in the numbers from muscle memory.

The wall split down the middle and swung open slowly. Behind it were two sets of body armor and a multitude of weapons, guns and knives and a single bow. 

James tried to back away, but Joel was at his back, both hands holding him steady by the shoulders. “Any of this look familiar to you?” he asked, shuffling him forward again, toward the weapons.

James reached out a shaking hand, fingers hovering over the curve of the bow, morbidly fascinated. The moment he touched it, the alarm bells in his head went off again, and he jerked his hand back. “No,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic now has [beautiful fan art](https://beetleknee.tumblr.com/post/176777631357/dont-be-afraid-of-love-and-affection-a-gift) drawn and gifted by the very talented [beetleknee](https://beetleknee.tumblr.com).


	4. We Used to Wait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You made it past the creepiest bits! This is the part where the narrative takes a turn from creepy/angsty to mostly just angsty.

_All my old friends, they don't know me now_  
_All my old friends are staring through me now_  
...  
All my old friends wait

— Arcade Fire, “Suburban War”

 

* * *

 

James sat at the table, staring at a cup of green tea. Joel set a glass of water and a bowl in front of him. In it was rice, topped with some kind of beans and a fried egg. 

“Experimenting again?” James teased.

“Somethin’ like that,” Joel said, his smile oddly strained. He set a pill down on James’ napkin. “Gotcha somethin’ that might help with those headaches.”

Joel sat across from him at the table with nothing but a mug of coffee. “Aren’t you going to eat?” James asked him.

“Not real hungry,” Joel said. “It’s alright if you’re not either. Make sure you take that pill though.”

“Thank you.” James swallowed it down, then he tried to eat from the bowl in front of him. He had no appetite though, felt strangely full already. 

Joel watched him pick at his food for a moment, then he got up without a word. He came back a moment later with something in his hands, but James couldn’t look directly at it.

“What is that?” James asked.

“Give it a minute. We’re gonna try this again.”

James looked at Joel, who seemed far too serious. “Again?” Joel only shook his head, then he set the device down in the middle of the table. James had to look past it to see him. James stared at his food, picking over it with his fork. “Thank you for breakfast, but I’m not feeling very hungry.” 

“That’s alright,” Joel told him, although he seemed disappointed somehow.

“Are you okay?” James asked. Joel stared back, and James felt a lump in his throat. “Are— are  _we_ okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you sleeping in the guest bed,” James said, and now that it was out it felt too difficult to stop. “I meanyou smoking again, and I can’t remember the last time we— the last time we even kissed, actually. Not that you should feel like you have to, but it feels different.  _You_ feel different, and I. Have I done something wrong?”

“No,” Joel said quietly, looking like it pained him. “You haven’t done anything wrong, James.” Joel rubbed a hand over his mouth, scratched fingers through his beard, and he laughed a little, though it didn’t sound like anything was really all that amusing. “Funny, the things you remember.”

“What?” James asked.

“You know what time it is?” Joel asked him.

James looked for his phone, but he had left it somewhere, upstairs maybe. “Breakfast time?” he tried, teasing.

“It’s ten thirty.”

“So brunch time then,” he said more slowly, still trying his best to keep it light.

Joel smiled a little at that, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “You’re not hungry ‘cause you already ate.” 

“What?” James asked again.

“I tried to have this conversation with you twice already. You remember any of it?” James could hear the ringing in his ears again. “Look at me,” Joel said. “Try to stay with me.” His voice sounded strange, overlaid as if there were two of him speaking. As if James had heard it before and heard it now in surround sound. He fixed his gaze on Joel’s face, just past the strange device he couldn’t look at, and the ringing in his ears faded. “Good,” Joel said. “Focus. Now tell me, what’s the last thing you remember?”

“I woke up at six,” James said.  _Alone_ , he didn’t say. “I... showered. I got ready, and I came down here and. And here we are, eating breakfast, at— you said it’s ten thirty?” Joel picked up his phone and turned it toward him, let him see the clock. “How did I...”

“We’ll get to the ‘how’ in a minute,” Joel said. “What about yesterday?”

“Yesterday?” James repeated, then he felt foolish. Stupid, like he was a child, ready to be berated if he answered incorrectly. It was a funny comparison to make; his parents had never made him feel that way. “I don’t know. We didn’t do much yesterday, did we?” He laughed self-consciously, and he watched Joel’s brow furrow.

“You remember goin’ outside?” 

“In the garden? I— yes, we spent some time in the garden.” James rubbed between his eyes; there was a dull throb that even the medication wasn’t holding at bay.

“And we went to the shed,” Joel said.

“Right, yes. You needed me to let you in, because you forgot the passcode again.” He said it fondly, but Joel flinched and he felt himself stop smiling. 

“What did you see? In the shed.”

James shook his head. It was such a strange question. “It was a mess,” he said, and Joel looked like he was in actual pain. “Are you—”

“That’s all? It was a mess?” Joel asked.

James hesitated, but he wasn’t sure what Joel was after. “Yes,” he answered slowly.

For a long moment, Joel sat back in his chair, rubbing his prosthetic hand over his mouth. He took out his phone and tapped off a few things, glanced around them a few times. Then he nodded to himself, seemed to come to some decision. “James,” he said carefully. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” James told him. It was emphatic and automatic, an answer to a question too obvious to voice.

It made Joel’s face crumple up again, but he smoothed it quickly enough. “Okay. I need you to listen. I’m not supposed to shock you. We think that’s how you get those memory gaps—”

“We?” James asked, but Joel brushed right past it.

“—but you’re doin’ better than you’ve done every other time we tried this. Focus on me, and you let me know if any part of this sounds familiar to you.” James was confused, but he nodded slowly. “I don’t. I don’t remember everything either, so you don’t have to feel like... like it’s all you,” Joel said. “But I know my name isn’t Joel, and I ain’t a writer. Never served in the Army either, but that’s closer to the truth than anything they— they  _gave_ you. I’ve worked for Overwatch more or less for twenty years.” James wanted to laugh. It sounded absurd. He wanted to arrange an emergency meeting with Joel’s therapist. But there was an uncomfortable weight to his limbs and he felt cold all over, and he couldn’t react at all. “My name’s Jesse McCree,” he said, slow and determined like he hadn’t been lying about trying to remember it himself. “And you are Shimada Hanzo.”

 

* * *

 

They couldn’t stay. Not now. Not with everything Joel had told him. Not with the weapons in the shed or James’ spreadsheet of coordinates. Not with the memories crowding into his head, either.

Joel had explained with the sparse details he knew, and their _friends_ had done things. The new neighbors had been there to reinforce Joel’s story and fill in gaps. A Dr. Ziegler was there too, jammed a needle into his arm and told him this Talon had used different procedures on him than on Joel. There was something in him they had to bury deeper, and maybe that was why Joel remembered so much faster, so much easier. Hideo — Genji — was there, with his sad, scarred face and his story that they were brothers. The part of him that went cold and heavy and wanted to forget knew it had to be real, but it didn’t  _feel_  real. Nothing did except the feel of Delilah’s fur under his hand. He thought Joel’s arms around him might still feel real, but he had lost that already, when Joel remembered the things James didn’t.

The memories came in little flashes, fractured and fragmented still, and he didn’t want more of them. He had not been a good man, before. He hadn’t even been a neutral sort of man, the kind who made mistakes and learned lessons. He had been the kind of man with the blood of hundreds of people on his hands, maybe thousands if he ever recalled what exactly his clan had done, who had been in charge and when.

James was not equipped to manage any of it, and less so without Joel at his side. But Joel remembered too, and besides, now that James was supposed to  _know_ , he wouldn’t respond to that name.

James was not equipped for this, but perhaps Hanzo was. Perhaps a lifetime of ruthlessness had left him more resilient. On the flight to Gibraltar, they left him alone, in a tiny bunk sectioned off from the main cabin. He dug into his own mind there, tried to drag Hanzo to the surface.

He opened his eyes to find them wet, his head pounding. Joel was looking at him from the curtained doorway, seemed surprised to be caught at it. “Don’t look at me like that,” James said, embarrassed by the pleading sound of his voice. Shame bubbled up, a sense that far too much was visible on his face, written on his skin.

Joel looked away then, and James bit down on the noise that threatened to escape. It was shameful, he thought, a weakness Hanzo did not approve of. James thought that if they weren’t forced to share a body, Hanzo might kill him just to stop his sniveling. Hanzo hated weakness, in himself most of all. James had the muscle memory now, knew the way he could shape his face to a perfect picture of disdain, knew the way Hanzo used it to cow lesser people.

Joel — Jesse, he had to remember — had never been cowed by it, had seemed to find it either infuriating or amusing by turns. When Jesse looked up again, James tried it on him anyway, anything to make him stop hovering there. Jesse snorted, and he seemed to come to a decision. He came closer, flicked the curtain closed behind him. “That don’t have the right effect when you aren’t all there,” he said, surprisingly gently. James wondered which  _you_  he meant.

Jesse sat beside him on the little cot, but he left space between them. James wanted to bridge the gap, curl his arms around him; he wanted to shove him away too, send him running back the way he’d come. Instead he sat frozen to the spot. “How is this so easy for you?” he asked.

Jesse shook his head. “It’s not.” He looked at James, eyes searching, and he seemed frustrated by whatever he found. “You heard Angie. They did…  _more_  to you. Takes time to remember everything.”

“And if I don’t want to?” He stared at his hands in his lap, and Jesse said nothing. “I was happy before. I don’t think  _he_  was. Ever.”

Jesse made a pained sound, and James looked up to catch him staring at the ceiling. “Hanzo is—  _You_   _are_  complicated. You can’t go back now, and you can’t stay in limbo forever either.”

“Complicated,” James repeated. “You didn’t like him.” Jesse looked at him again then, and he swallowed but didn’t say anything. It stung, made his head throb and eyes burn again. His jaw ached for clenching it. “You certainly didn’t love him,” James said, and Jesse flinched. “They made that part up, didn’t they?” The hair on the backs of his arms stood up, and his neck prickled with it. “You weren’t that different; it’s easy to forget which  _you_  I’m talking to.”

“There’s only one of me,” Jesse said quietly. “You talk like you got two people in your head, but it ain’t like that for me.”

James nodded, fingers curling into the thin sheet beneath him. “That’s. That’s what I mean, then. You aren’t really different at all.”

“I feel a hell of a lot different.”

“No,” he insisted. “I still. I still know you. Your favorite color is red. You knew how to cook already. You love dogs and you’re okay with cats and you’re afraid of snakes, and you’re smart and stubborn and loyal to a fault. You’d stay outside all day if you could. You tell shitty jokes and have shittier pickup lines and somehow it still  _works_  for you. If I weren’t always after you, you’d alternate between forgetting to eat and overindulging. You love telling stories—” Jesse looked like it hurt, and James paused, flinching back. “You still got to keep parts of you. But I… They _stole_ from me, stole everything that made me who I was.” The room felt like it was filled with static, and Jesse stared at him, breath coming in short little pants. “They reshaped me into someone you might actually love, and they made a  _mockery_  of—” His teeth hurt as he clenched his jaw shut. Hanzo would not thank him for that, he knew.

He looked away from Jesse, shoved his palms hard against his eyes, trying to scrub the headache and the tingle of static away. “Of what?” Jesse pressed, and James made an awful, humiliating sound.

“Of  _me_ ,” he said, his voice low and alien to his own ears. James looked at him, couldn’t tell where Joel ended and Jesse began, and it ached in a way Joel on his own could never have caused. “Of my feelings,” he admitted, thinking there was at least one thing James was good at that Hanzo never had been. Jesse jerked back, and James knew it wasn’t Joel at all right then. It didn’t matter. “I love Joel, and all the parts I love are still in there. They’re you. I think  _he_  loves you too.” Jesse said nothing, looked like he worked hard to keep his face unreadable, but his eyes were so familiar. “I think they built it all from something, and I remember.” He swallowed, but Jesse hadn’t run yet, hadn’t pushed him away or told him off. “I remember I watched you sometimes. When you weren’t looking. I liked your smile, even though you. You didn’t smile at  _me_ very much.”

“James— Hanzo— this isn’t—”

“I liked the way you held your gun, and your  _stupid_  jokes, and your awful beard. I think I even liked that you didn’t like me, because it meant you had some good sense and knew how to be loyal.”

“You gotta stop,” Jesse said, voice pained.

“Why?” James asked, and it wasn’t a question. It was a command. Jesse heard it too, and the blood seemed to drain from his face.

James didn’t know when or how he had moved closer, but he was closer, had a hand on Jesse’s knee. Jesse’s hand covered it, and for a brief moment he thought it was a victory, until Jesse pulled it carefully away. “‘Cause when you come back to yourself, you ain’t gonna be happy you said any of that. That’s. That’s you projectin’ onto half baked memories.”

“And how would  _you_  know?” he asked, a little meanly. “You don’t remember everything, either.”

“No, but that’s part of the problem, too, ain’t it? It’s hard enough workin’ out who  _I_ am. I can’t add to that tryin’ to figure out two of you at once.” James huffed to himself, but it made sense. He hated that it did, and he wanted to push, but he nodded instead, drew back from Jesse. “Besides, I remember enough to… to know what you did.”

“And what did I do?”

“You asked Genji yet how he got all those scars?”

James recoiled, felt nausea rise inside him. “No,” he said, hushed.

“You should ask about that.”

“I won’t like the answer, will I?”

Jesse sucked in air through his teeth. “No, don’t think you will. Maybe there’s a reason you’re happier with Hanzo buried.” He looked like Joel then, like he wanted to reach out and touch James’ face. “You gotta do it anyway. You can’t get stuck halfway.”

He nodded, and Jesse got up. James watched him, heart aching. He’d thought he was going to spend a lifetime with this man, and he turned out to be someone else, but not someone else  _enough_. He was a killer too, but he was some kind of hero, like someone right out of a movie, except that James knew what he felt like in his arms, knew the taste of his mouth and his cooking, knew the feel of his heartbeat under his hands. “And if I don’t remember?” he asked, though it felt like the words would choke him. Jesse turned with a hand on the curtain, looked at him in a way that pinned him to the spot. “If he never comes back, would you—”

“Don’t finish that,” Jesse said too quickly. “Please don’t ask.” He looked like he was in pain, and James wanted to smooth it away with his fingers. “There’s no answer I can give that ain’t cruel in some way.”

 

* * *

 

James did ask Genji, and Genji’s face was as pained as Jesse’s had been, but he told him. Hanzo had tried to kill his own brother, lived with the blood on his hands and a desperation to make up for the deed. It made him sick to hear, visibly so if Genji’s expression told him anything.

“You know you did good after,” Genji said, a hand on James’ shoulder, and he couldn’t believe his brother could bear to touch him. He flinched away from it, jerked back until he rattled against the wall of the bunk. “You’ve worked hard. We worked together for months without a problem,” Genji insisted. “You’ve helped people. You helped  _me_. You aren’t the same as you were then.” Genji paused, hummed to himself. “I mean even before all of this. You changed before you came to Overwatch, and you changed more between then and this thing.”

James nodded, head drooping into his hands, but he couldn’t believe any of it. He dreaded the moment the memory would come, if it ever did. He knew in his gut it would be the worst of them.

 

* * *

 

He slept fitfully until they arrived in Gibraltar. He numbly let Genji lead him outside, Delilah loping ahead of them on her leash, happy to be free of the kennel they’d brought. He stayed outside with her as long as he could bear, then Genji took him to Hanzo’s room.

Except for Delilah, everything in the room felt unfamiliar. He knew he should recognize it, knew it should mean something to be here, but it was a cold, sterile place, no more welcoming than the house after they’d found the guns. He dug through the closet and stared at his own clothes, a mix of contemporary and traditional. He ran his fingers over a  _kyudo-gi_. He knew what it was called, knew what it was for, but he had no sense of wearing it.

He put it on anyway, trusted his hands to know what to do. Delilah watched from the floor, tail thumping for attention. He was right about this, at least; his hands were sure, and it seemed the clothing slipped on without any conscious thought from him. He checked a mirror, and it seemed off somehow. He dug back in the closet, pulled out the armored boots he found, and he put those on, too.

He felt like he was playing dress up. It was a costume, he thought. But the clothing was  _for_  something. It had a purpose. Hanzo was a purposeful man; he didn’t follow tradition entirely for its own sake, was willing to discard it when it was burdensome or unnecessary. He had t-shirts and sweaters and jeans in the closet. James shrugged one sleeve off, stared at the tattoo in the mirror for a moment, and then he mimed drawing a bow.

_“Can’t figure how you’re still alive, runnin’ ‘round half naked,” McCree said._

_He only grunted in response, eye on the target. He let the arrow fly, then another. Both landed with a satisfying sound, perfectly centered on the targets. “How can they attack if they never see me coming?” he asked smugly. “Armor is noisy, and it slows me down.”_

_“It’s gotten me outta some tight spots,” McCree said._

_“Spots you would not be in if you were capable of stealth.” He loosed another arrow, landed it just to the side of one of the others. He grunted. He could smell McCree’s soap, hear him shifting his weight. It was distracting._

_“Learned plenty of stealth in Blackwatch.”_

_Hanzo snorted. “You?” He looked at him then, a long survey from head to toe. McCree shifted his weight again, seemed like he was trying to decide whether or not to be nervous. “You_ jangle _.” He looked pointedly at the spurs. “I always know where you are, cowboy.” He turned back to the practice targets, a strange weight in his chest. He had said more than he meant to, even if McCree wouldn’t know it._

James stared at himself in the mirror, jaw clenched tight. It was the hair, he realized. It was too short. They had taken that too. He ran his hand through it, wondered how long it would take to return to what it had been before.

He dug through the little desk and found a small collection of scarves. They’d been used for his hair, he remembered. His favorite, the gold one, was missing. He trailed his hand over a blue one, trying to recover some memory. It lingered like a word at the tip of his tongue. He breathed, tried to let himself go blank. Somehow he knew it required a kind of surrender.

_McCree was next to him. He had bruises on his face, a scrape on one cheekbone, and he moved gingerly, prodding at himself. He was bleeding from a few cuts, and he grunted when Hanzo reached out to inspect them. “Be still,” Hanzo ordered._

_“’S’nothin’,” McCree grunted._

_“I’ll decide that,” he said coolly. “I believe you gave this talk to me once. It’s time I return the favor.”_

_McCree nodded, dropped his head back against the wall. Hanzo tried to be quick and efficient. Most of the cuts were shallow, and the armor had protected him well enough. There was a deep one on his right arm, though, bleeding sluggishly now. The moment Hanzo touched it, McCree groaned. Hanzo thought it might need stitches later. For now, though, there was little he could do. He yanked the scarf free, and he tried not to read into the way McCree watched his hair spill around his face. It was stained already, the gold silk mottled by his bloody fingers. It was cleaner than anything else here, though. He wrapped it tight around the wound, and he dutifully ignored the temptation of McCree’s eyes on him._

At least he knew where the scarf went. It was lost, probably filthy and bloodstained, discarded somewhere along the way. James wondered if he had been the kind of man to give up something like that to just anyone, or if it had been specific to Jesse. He wanted to be the former, but he thought it might be the latter. That scarf had been important. He wondered if Jesse had known then, or if he’d really been as oblivious as Hanzo seemed to think. James didn’t think either answer would be satisfying.

“I’m a mess,” he said to Delilah. Her floppy ears twitched, and she thumped her tail on the cheap carpet as if to agree. He knelt to pet her. “I’ve always been a mess.” She tried to lick his face, and he laughed a little, almost got her tongue in his mouth because of it.

Later, a knock at the door woke him from dozing on the floor with Delilah. He pushed her weight off him gently, and he got up, trying to brush dog hair off Hanzo’s clothing.

It was Genji, a hopeful look on his face. “Hanzo?” Genji breathed. James felt sad and strangely ashamed of himself.

“I. I’m sorry,” James said. “I thought the clothes would help, somehow.”

Genji visibly drew back, then seemed to immediately regret it. “No, it. It’s okay. It was a good idea. I was only surprised.” It sounded like more than surprise, but James left it alone. “You are dressed well enough for the occasion, though,” Genji said after a moment. “I thought if you were up to it, I could take you to practice. Some movement might help.”

James looked down at himself, and he thought he had little else to do. He should be useful to these people somehow. He nodded at Genji. “Someone should watch Delilah,” he said. “I don’t know how she’ll behave.”

He knew who it should be, but he didn’t care to speak it. He swallowed and looked away. “I can take her to Jesse,” Genji offered. “You need to take the boots off anyway. You won’t need them.”

James nodded, and he let Genji take Delilah’s leash. He wondered if it would be like this, if he would have to share custody of a dog with his estranged husband. No, not his husband. They hadn’t really been married, he reminded himself. There had been no ceremony, no documents, nothing to make it real except fabricated memories and a pair of rings. He bit the inside of his cheek to combat the burning in his eyes, and when he was finished with the boots, he took the ring off too.

He stared at it a moment, heart aching, and he reminded himself that he hadn’t even chosen it. Talon had. It wasn’t  _his_  any more than the house or car had been. He set it carefully on the desk, unsure where else it might go.

He rubbed at his hand, stared at it. They had only been taken a few months ago, and Overwatch could only estimate how long they’d been in the house, but somehow it had been long enough to wear a shiny groove into his finger, leave behind the faintest tan line. He wondered if it would fade before his hair grew back. For a moment, he felt bitter. Jesse’s left hand was a prosthetic; he wouldn’t have any leftovers to remind him. He didn’t want Jesse unhappy, not really, but it seemed unfair that he was left with the reminders when Jesse could simply discard them at will.

Genji found him again like that, staring at his hands and blinking back tears. “You know,” Genji said gently. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re very brave, James.” Genji hesitated over his name, but it was kind, kinder than he expected. He didn’t believe it, but he nodded. Genji was the brave one, and he owed him the effort to try, he thought. He had always wanted a brother.

“Thank you,” he said.

Genji snorted and gestured for him to follow. “Don’t thank me. You have  _no idea_ how much shit I’m going to give you when you’re back to your old self.”

Despite himself, despite everything, James laughed.

 

* * *

 

Genji was right that the movement helped. Genji put him through exercises, movements his muscles knew even if his mind did not. With the movement came little flashes of memory. None were as elaborate as the ones he’d had in his room, but he could sense them.

Some were even pleasant. He remembered the smell of grass and cherry blossoms, remembered misty days and sunny ones alike, going through the steps with Genji at his side, young and whole and much more foolish, deliberately misstepping just to irritate their sensei. He struck a practice dummy with an open palm, and he remembered one of the guards falling with a wheezing laugh, remembered his father smiling at his first victory.

Genji put him through his paces, ordered steps that his body recalled as easily as breathing. But some of the memories were less pleasant, brought with them the faces of people long dead, and he eventually had to stop. His head felt fuzzy, stuffed with cotton, and he could taste something like a battery in his mouth. The hairs on his arms were standing straight up again.

Genji watched him carefully, but he seemed to sense it was time for a break. “Did it help?” he asked.

James nodded, and he thought he should be out of breath, but he was barely sweating. He thought back on his runs with Joel, on lifting weights in the garage, and he realized he’d had to work hard to break a sweat then too. He stared at his hands, wondered at what his limits really were, wondered at the ways he’d been used when he’d gone completely blank. Genji tossed him a water bottle, and he caught it without a thought.

“You’re in good shape for an accountant,” Genji tried, and James almost laughed.

“It seems I did more than sit at a desk all day,” he said, and he rubbed at his brow. It didn’t hurt the way it had before, but he could feel the phantom pain of those migraines.

“Dinner or shower first?” Genji asked.

“A walk, maybe?” he suggested instead. The exercise had been good, but the need to  _move_  remained. Genji nodded and guided him outside.

They walked the cliffs, and it finally felt familiar, though no specific memory came to him. More a sense that they had done it before, maybe dozens of times. He asked about it.

“Yes,” Genji said. “You like to walk and talk and meditate and do all your stupid brooding out here.”

James smiled a little, though it was painful. He looked at Genji, thought he should share as well, though he had so little to offer. “Your brother is a ridiculous man.”

Genji snorted. “How so?”

James wondered if Genji knew about his feelings for Jesse. He wondered if everyone knew, or if Hanzo had kept it secret and squirreled away as carefully as he’d thought. “He’s obsessed with honor and bravery, and he’s a total coward about the things that should matter.”

Genji raised an eyebrow at that. “I would not call him a coward.”

“He’s never once told you he’s grateful for the chance you gave him, or that he loves you.”

“He doesn’t have to. I already know.”

James snorted. “Saying it out loud matters, too. He’s an idiot who hides from his feelings except to indulge in the worst of them.”

Genji laughed a little at that. “Strange that you had to be brainwashed to achieve some self-awareness.”

James laughed, too, though the reminder stung. “Did you know before? How he felt about Jesse?”

Genji sighed then, seemed to find it less amusing. “I suspected, but you never talked about it.” James nodded, his brow furrowed. “I don’t think anyone else did, if you find that comforting.”

“I don’t know,” James admitted. “Do you think there was…” He trailed off, unsure how to finish.  _Something between us_ , maybe, or  _a chance_. It didn’t seem to be Genji’s place to say, anyway, not if he had only suspected Hanzo’s feelings. James cleared his throat, and he looked right at him. “He wouldn’t say it, but I will, while I’m still in the driver’s seat. I’m grateful for the chance you gave hi— me. I’m grateful for all you’re doing now. I know it isn’t easy, and I can’t guarantee how it will go later, but I. Thank you. I always wanted a brother, and you’re a good one to have. He loves you, and so do I.”

Genji didn’t speak, but he did do something James had no recent memory of, nothing that brought back a muscle memory either, at least not one that wasn’t decades old. Genji hugged him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote all this creepy-ass brainwashing and now it's morphed into a mopey character study and making Hanzo hug his brother, surprise!
> 
> This fic now has [beautiful fan art](https://beetleknee.tumblr.com/post/176777631357/dont-be-afraid-of-love-and-affection-a-gift) drawn and gifted by the very talented [beetleknee](https://beetleknee.tumblr.com).


	5. Mountains beyond Mountains

_My mind is open wide_  
_And now I'm ready to start_  
_Not sure you'll open the door_  
_To step out into the dark_  
_Now I'm ready_

— Arcade Fire, "Ready to Start"

 

* * *

 

He visited Dr. Ziegler frequently, let himself be scanned and monitored, let her draw his blood for what felt like a thousand tests, provided data for her to pore over with Winston and Mei. They had brought the little device along as well; they held some hope it might be useful, some part of the programming that could be used for de-programming as well. Now that he could see it, trapped safely in a locked glass case, it looked alarmingly like one of Overwatch’s biotic canisters. The glow it gave off was not warm yellow but a swirling mass of reds and blacks and purples, an ugly contusion in a jar.

Dr. Ziegler’s treatments and the passing of time itself brought his memories slowly back. The more he remembered, the more he remembered. Memories seemed to grow exponentially, flooded in and filled the gaps. It was frequently overwhelming, left him exhausted with his head feeling bruised. Most were only snatches, embellishments to color in the world around him, but some were whole scenes replayed in excruciating detail.

He remembered Mei and Satya, their long talks over tea at odd hours. He remembered Hana, irritating and lovable at once, cheerfully cajoling him into games. He remembered the whole team, the ones he liked and the ones he tolerated, who liked or tolerated him in turn. He remembered long hours on the cliffside with Genji, longer hours in their rooms talking. He remembered their childhood in more faded fragments, remembered fights and makeups and pranks. He remembered his parents’ faces, the faces and names of Shimada family and clan members.

There were ugly memories that crowded in too, most of them old but some still fresh. Memories of blood and broken bones at his hands, memories of his own injuries, memories of people he had killed, mostly nameless and faceless to him. Remembering their names was worse, and he was torn between honoring them by trying and pushing the memory away.

He remembered Jesse, and that hurt in a different way. He remembered their first meeting. The suspicious, hostile stare and the thinly veiled threat in his stance mingled uncomfortably beside memories of Joel in the kitchen, whistling and flipping pancakes. He remembered the way they had grown closer, after Hanzo had rescued a child on a mission, proved somehow that he wasn’t entirely a monster. He remembered drinking whiskey and sake together in long stretches of silence, tenuous at first before they settled into a more comfortable rhythm. They had struck a truce, forced by proximity and a budding mutual respect and a taste for drinking when their thoughts grew too heavy.

He remembered the longing too, the day it struck him that he liked Jesse’s laugh and the shape of his hands, metal and skin alike.  _Wanting_  had driven him nearly to madness, had given him a fondness for things he’d thought foolish before. Jesse had never shown a sign of wanting in return. If he had, those memories hadn’t reared their heads. It had left him paralyzed, certain there was a limit to their peace; Jesse had tolerated him, perhaps even liked spending time together, but he had shared his most private self with other people. He would not reciprocate, not for a man who’d tried to kill his own brother.

Hanzo had been certain. James was left with the same certainty, and he felt it reverberate inside him any time he caught Jesse’s eye. Hanzo had left it unspoken, had never known what it might really be like, but James knew. He’d thought he could preserve those memories and hold them close, thought he could soothe himself with them, but now it seemed worse to know. It hadn’t even been real.

Jesse gave him a wide berth now. He seemed to hold no hard feelings for anything they had done under Talon’s control, seemed to have determined to let it rest. But he wanted nothing to do with James, that much was clear. They had not spent any time alone since the flight back. It could have been an accident, but James knew enough now at least to understand it was purposeful. Jesse seemed to have a talent for appearing only when others were present and for leaving the room with someone else.

Only once and entirely by accident, James cornered him in the kitchen, caught him alone filling up a coffee mug. Even there, the low sounds of others in the adjacent dining hall prohibited any illusions of privacy. He watched only for a moment, but Jesse’s movements were too familiar. Hanzo had watched him do this a hundred times, and James had seen the movements too, the sleepy shuffle to his walk and the practiced motions of his hands. James felt frozen, and when Jesse turned, he froze too.

“I’m sorry, I—” James cut himself off. He had been caught staring, and there was no good excuse.

“Coffee?” Jesse asked, clearly trying hard to sound very casual. James could only nod. “You can take this one. Made it too sweet anyway.”

Jesse left it on the counter and left the kitchen. He didn’t even bother to pour himself more. 

James let him go, didn’t have it in him to press for a conversation. Ashamed that he neither had the nerve to follow nor had the ability to resist wallowing, he took a sip of the coffee. It was perfect, prepared exactly the way he liked it when he allowed himself to indulge in so much sugar. Prepared exactly the way Jesse had made it for him in the mornings, back at their house.  _Talon’s house_ , he had to remember. It was never real.

He hated Talon for it. Hanzo had hated, but as James he never had. It was familiar and unfamiliar at once, the burning rage inside of him, the need to tear something apart to repair any piece of himself. The practice room smelled like ozone when he trained with Genji. His arm crackled with static when he used his bow. He knew now it was because of the dragons that lived under his skin, but he still had no memory of them, no sense of their presence except the charge in the air when he practiced or grew too angry.

When he needed to rest, he spent time with Delilah or out in the garden he’d started, often both at once. The garden hurt, brought back the pain of sharing a home again, but it gave him something to do that felt like it was _his_. He only planted flowers, brought to him by Genji and Mei from down at the market, asphodel and narcissus and lavender. He didn’t know how to care for them, wasn’t sure they would last, but researching it on his tablet kept his mind occupied.

After the embarrassment in the kitchen, he sat back in the sun, Delilah draped over his lap while he played with her ears. He forced himself to think of anything other than the lingering, imagined taste of coffee on his tongue. He wondered if it were possible to grow other things here, and he thought about what his memories told him was his real home, about pink sakura petals carpeting the ground.

They had been there when he’d done it, late in the blooming season.

They had looked like Genji’s sweat- and bloodstained white  _gi_ , had flattened under his heavy feet.

They had stained red with the drops of blood.

The petals had flurried and settled on his blade when he finally dropped it to run mindlessly from Genji, from the brother he’d left bleeding and burned inside.

Hanzo shoved shaking fingers into Delilah’s fur as the memory broke through, rocked over him in a relentless, brutal wave. He curled around his dog, held her to him, and she stayed still and steady against him even as he made his strange animal noises, even as the static rose around him in an uncontrollable surge.

 

* * *

 

Delilah followed him dutifully back to his quarters. She was a good companion, he thought, though she had seemed as stupidly certain as any of his teammates that the dragons wouldn’t hurt her. They hadn’t, had seemed  _fond_  of her, even. He supposed he was fond of her too.

He was not sure how he had picked out such a dog, even brainwashed. She was a mutt, the only recognizable breed in her one that seemed to exist primarily to be  _cute_. If he’d been himself, he would never have picked her. He would have chosen something with a dignified bearing, something strong. A good guard dog or a hunter. She had not been trained as well as she ought either. She was mischievous and spoiled, the product of far too many indulgences. But she was loyal.

“You’re a good dog,” he said aloud, and she wagged her tail at him. “I am not your old master,” he reminded her, but she appeared unfazed. He sighed. “Come,” he said, and she bounded to him, tried to lick his face as she had before. He tipped his head away, but he snorted, smiled a little in spite of it. “You will need to be retrained. You’re no good to me without discipline,” he lied. He wouldn’t forget the way she had stayed with him, she and the dragons the only living souls to witness his breakdown.

Now he ached all over from it, his head most of all. It felt almost like a hangover, though the nausea was not an especially pressing problem. With a lifetime of discipline at his back, he pulled himself free from Delilah, and he put on some tea. While it steeped, he showered quickly and roughly, did not bother to look at himself in the mirror. He knew what he would see: red, puffy eyes, the weight of his new memories on his brow.

He was more himself than he had been in months, and it brought the burden of every decade back to him. He took one of the migraine pills with his tea, nearly scalded himself to get it down quickly. Delilah nudged against his leg, and he slowed himself down with a hand in her ruff, made himself wait for the tea to cool before he drank more.

There were still some gaps, he knew. Still pieces of himself he had lost, pieces he might never get back. But he knew who he was now, knew the kind of man he had been in each part of his life. The certainty was bracing, at least, after so much time without it.

He was Shimada Hanzo, disgraced heir of the Shimada clan. He tried to kill his brother, and he failed. He was forgiven, undeservingly so, and he worked to earn it every day. He was a sniper, preternaturally gifted with a bow and one of the greatest assassins in the world regardless of what weapon he chose. He was a criminal, an agent in a secret, extralegal organization, and he could admit, reluctantly and with some of the perspective granted by his time as James, he might even be a hero to some.

He walked and talked and trained with his brother. He meditated with him, sometimes, when Genji wasn't with Zenyatta. He drank tea with Mei and Satya, played video games with Hana, watched movies with Lúcio and Lena and Reinhardt, played cards with Fareeha and Brigitte, lifted weights with Zarya. He took commands from Winston and sometimes from Morrison. He got patched up by Angela. He trained with his teammates. He  _trusted_  them, even those who did not trust him.

He owned a dog now, and he gardened. Perhaps he gardened, he amended; he was not sure if he would continue now that he was more fully himself. But he had enjoyed it. He practiced archery daily. He read when he could focus, drank when he could not. He knew all these things about himself now, no matter what else Talon had taken.

He commanded dragons, he brought devastation from the shadows and rooftops, and he was still desperately, irrevocably in love with Jesse McCree.

 

* * *

 

Hanzo slept off the pain first, woke with a weight on his chest and an arm gone numb. Delilah, he thought, pushing gently at her. It was another thing he would have to retrain, but a small part of him admitted it had been comforting.

He splashed cool water on his face and checked the redness around his eyes. He did not look well, but it was far better than it had been.

He wondered how best to tell Genji. It seemed unsuitable to simply surprise him, and equally unsuitable to keep it to himself any longer than he already had. He texted Genji to tell him to come to Hanzo’s room right away.

When Genji appeared at his door, he had the same hopeful look on his face Hanzo had dashed a dozen times as James. He wondered how James would handle this now, and the thought seemed wrong this time. They were not separate people; that was how he had thought before the memories, when compartmentalizing was all he could do to make sense of it. But James was only another part of him, some glimpse at who he might have been without blood on his hands, without the clan.

He could have been a normal man, someone without a hundred needless complications, or someone whose complications were more mundane. He’d been afraid, weak, in need of silly comforts and the sort of things Hanzo’d imagined himself to be above. He had also been braver than he’d thought, had risen to the threat and the fear by  _trying_  anyway, even when he’d been sure he was out of his element. And he’d been braver in other ways too.

Hanzo looked at Genji now, and he pulled him close, arms right around him.

Genji made a sound, but he didn’t fight it, instead leaned into him awkwardly. Hanzo felt every hard and sharp piece of his suit, and he didn’t care. When Hanzo released him, Genji only stared.

“It came to my attention recently that I had not done that in a very long time,” he said.

“Hanzo,” Genji breathed, not for the first or even tenth time, but this time he was right.

“Don’t expect that to happen regularly,” he tried.

“Life or death situations only,” Genji agreed, smiling a little.

“Maybe an occasional celebration.”

Genji laughed, and his eyes searched Hanzo’s face. “You… you’re  _you_ , though.”

“More or less,” he said quietly. He invited Genji in and put on more tea. They sat together and talked for a long time, Hanzo telling him all that he could remember until Delilah began to whine to go outside.

 

* * *

 

The news traveled quickly throughout the base, but most seemed willing to give him the space to recuperate. He received one message apiece from Mei and Satya and six in a row from Hana. His shoulder still ached where Reinhardt had clapped it with a heavy hand, overjoyed to have him back. Others were subtler, but it seemed they all  _knew_. Secrets were difficult to keep at the watchpoint, unless one told nobody at all.

Jesse, though, had barely reacted when they found him in the rec room. He had watched Fareeha congratulate Hanzo, and he’d muttered only a quiet, gruff “welcome back.” It ached, and Hanzo thought it might  _always_  ache. In his room, he eyed the ring he’d left on the desk, and he tossed it into the garbage. It still wasn’t his, and he wasn’t so sentimental he wished to keep something false to remind him.

He should have known, though, that Jesse would not leave him alone. He showed up after dinner, knocked insistently until Hanzo was forced to open the door just to stop the noise.

“Did you mean it?” Jesse asked as soon as the door was open. 

Hanzo swallowed uncertainly, a strange hope at war with memories of every time he’d thought Jesse might be receptive, only to realize he’d misled himself. “Did I mean what?”

“It’s you. You’re all  _you_  now.”

“Yes,” he said, biting down on his frustration.

“Okay,” Jesse said, and Hanzo thought for the briefest moment that might be all. “Okay,” Jesse said again, and he crowded into Hanzo’s doorway, into his room and his space as the door slid shut behind him. “And did you mean the rest, before?”

He didn’t ask him to clarify this time. He knew what he was asking, because it made his chest and jaw ache, made him feel strangely fragile and frightened as he had when he’d been James. He could not hide now though, he knew, couldn’t lie to Jesse now. He wondered what James would do.

“Yes,” he said through gritted teeth, trying to understand the look on Jesse’s face.

“Oh, thank God,” Jesse breathed as he closed the rest of the distance, ducked his head down to kiss him. Hanzo gasped into it, but he caught up soon enough, tipped up and into the kiss all on instincts built from his ill-gotten knowledge and months of longing.

Jesse didn’t kiss the same after all. Joel had been nothing but sweet and playful. Jesse’s kiss hinted at those things, but it was also pushy, demanding. It was at once familiar and  _better_. Hanzo grabbed at his hair, another hand tangled in the front of his shirt, and he demanded too, coaxed Jesse’s mouth open and licked his way in, tormented him until Jesse’s hands spasmed against his back, jerking him closer.

Eventually they slowed the pace, mouths sweeter and more careful, content with the realization that this was neither the first nor the last kiss they’d have. Jesse breathed against his forehead, “I thought you were  _gone_.” Jesse kissed him again, fiercer this time, and Hanzo’s head spun with it. “I’m so sorry, Hanzo.”

He laughed a little, breathless and confused. “What?”

“I couldn’t remember everything when you asked before, only the worst of it. And then I didn’t know how much of it was what they’d done to you, and I didn’t want a  _lie_. When I remembered, I wanted  _you_. I wanted you, and I didn’t know how to say any of it without makin’ it harder.” Jesse held his face, palms gentle against his cheeks. “You’re back though. It’s you, and I am so fuckin’ in love with you I’m fit to burst with it.”

He couldn’t say anything at first, but he nodded dumbly. “I thought… I thought you didn’t.”

Jesse laughed at that and kissed him again. “I know,” he said when they broke. “I know, and I’m sorry I ever let you think that. If I’d known I stood a chance I woulda tried sooner.” Hanzo nodded again, unsure what to say. “I remember how it happened,” Jesse said, voice quieter.

“Tell me.”

They moved to sit side by side on the bed, and Jesse’s telling brought his own memory of it.

_Hanzo ran, bow clutched in his hand. There was blood dripping over his knuckles, down across the bow. His shoulder hurt, radiated pain down to where it went numb at his fingertips. A ginger check with the fingers that could still feel told him his ribs were at least bruised, perhaps even broken if his labored breathing was anything to go by. His legs wobbled, threatened to collapse under him if he didn’t keep up his momentum._

_He had killed them, all three of them sent to ambush him, but they had_ done  _something to him. He could feel it in his veins, alternating ice and fire, could feel the way it made his head spin and his eyes burn. He didn’t know if anyone pursued, but he had to make it back to the team. His comm was gone, ground uselessly under someone’s boot. He had no sense of direction left, but he had to find them._

_His vision swam, closing in from all angles, and he stumbled. Poison, he thought. He had to warn someone, let them know. He stumbled again, each step more difficult, until he sank to the ground. He had no idea where he was, only that it was dark. He couldn’t feel his arm at all any more._

_“Hanzo,” someone said, and he jerked his head toward the sound. “Hanzo. Shit. Agent down. Pinging my location.” It was McCree, whose face swam in front of his own. Hanzo thought he was beautiful. He might have said so, because McCree blanched and pressed a hand to his forehead. “Need evac_ now _,” McCree snapped, then leaned closer. “Gonna get you outta this, partner.”_

_Hanzo laughed a little. He wasn’t going anywhere, and he knew it. He was going to die in the dark with his body on fire. He could feel McCree’s arms around him, trying to gather him close, and he laughed again, bitterness clawing at his insides. “I’m a dead man,” he said, hands clinging in McCree’s serape. “You’re dead if you stay,” he added, but he couldn’t make his fingers move again, the weight of him pulling McCree forward instead of pushing him away._

_McCree’s arms drew tighter, tight enough that he gasped at the pain in his ribs, though it was distant now, throbbing under the growing numbness. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere without you,” he growled, and Hanzo figured it couldn’t hurt. He was dying anyway; let him have this. He kissed McCree, just a brush of his mouth. He couldn’t tell if McCree kissed back. His lips were going numb too._

“You kissed me, in a fuckin’ dirty back alley in Brno while you were drugged outta your mind,” Jesse said. “And Talon caught up with us there, because I couldn’t get you to move, and I couldn’t carry you with all those injuries.”

Hanzo shook his head to clear the memory. “You broke position. To come find me.”

Jesse flushed. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. Prob’ly my fault they got both of us instead of only you.” He looked at him, huge brown eyes on Hanzo’s, and he dug something from his pocket: Hanzo’s scarf, golden silk mottled with bloodstains, wrinkled and worn and crumpled in Jesse’s fist. “You weren’t wrong,” Jesse said, a cool hand on Hanzo’s cheek. “They did build it from somethin’, but it wasn’t just you.”

Hanzo nodded, pulled him in again and kissed him until Delilah butted against them both, eager to be let in on the affection.

 

* * *

 

**Epilogue**

 

 _Sometimes I can’t believe it_  
_I'm moving past the feeling and into the night_

— Arcade Fire, “The Suburbs”

 

One by one, they tracked down the Talon agents directly responsible for what had been done to them. After combing it for evidence, they burned the house and stayed close enough to ensure the fire remained limited to the one property. Between the evidence gathered and the work done by Angela, Winston and Mei, they managed to reverse engineer the strange device used in Talon’s programming. It showed some promise that there may be a way to undo programming on other Talon operatives, and that, as much as their progress on the PETRAS Act, filled the watchpoint with a murmur of hope in the face of gloomy memories of Amélie Lacroix. 

Jesse helped Hanzo keep up the garden, and they did their best to train some measure of discipline into Delilah. They turned out to be fairly good at the first and utterly terrible at the second. Nobody at the watchpoint seemed to mind her lack of discipline though; she more than made up for it with her persistent friendliness and the memory of all she had done for them.

Recovery did not come easily. It moved in fits and starts. There were pieces of memory neither of them might ever get back. But Hanzo had the important ones. He remembered his teammates and his brother and Jesse, who woke him in the mornings and still cooked and made him coffee until the ache of those particularmemories faded, replaced instead — piece by piece and month by month — by how very real  _this_ was.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic now has [beautiful fan art](https://beetleknee.tumblr.com/post/176777631357/dont-be-afraid-of-love-and-affection-a-gift) drawn and gifted by the very talented [beetleknee](https://beetleknee.tumblr.com).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Life in Plastic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15632493) by [Swagreus (shiplizard)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplizard/pseuds/Swagreus)




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